


The Verses Play

by Mabartuna



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arkensil, Arkenstone is a Silmaril, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, Currently under revision, F/F, F/M, Fan Characters, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Multi, Overprotective Sibling Syndrome, Slow Build, Slow Burn, TW: Family Issues, TW:Slavery Mentioned, Tilda is spunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:17:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6408424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mabartuna/pseuds/Mabartuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ainulindalë was sung long ago and it is whispered that a few chords of it could be heard in the ocean. However, there is another song the Song of Being and certain choices will lead to ends that are hard to achieve but not altogether impossible it is a song created by the lives that live in Arda and its music is a gift to Eru. How would the world be changed if Thorin had survived? What if a few minor variances had a larger effect in the grand scheme of things than anyone had ever imagined?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Orcs and Lakemen

Kíli’s fevered skin and the stench radiating off of the wound in the lad’s thigh alerted Oin that he might lose his leg if not his life due to infection. The smell of rot was pungent and it was radiating off of the young dwarrow in such strong waves that the elderly dwarrow to keep his nose covered as he examined the wound at the behest of Fíli _._

 _“It clearly looks like fleshrot but how could fleshrot form so quickly? Was the lad not injured just a few days ago?’_ Oin ran his fingers over the wound. Noticing the blood seeping from the wound was not fresh and bright as it should be. Instead it was black. _‘This is not good.’_ Sticking his two fingers together he watched as the tell-tale strands formed as his fingers parted. _‘The lad’s blood is becoming thick. It is not only fleshrot but something else.’_

This wound was not a regular wound. In all his years of service to the Line of Durin and as a healer Oin had never seen one like this. He was quite sure of the fleshrot. But as for why Kíli was changing. Kíli’s body was pale, clammy even but there was a darkness creeping into his eyes. As if something in the darkness was drawing him close. It was as if a poison followed behind the infection. Hiding behind the rot and making its way through the dwarrow. Wreaking havoc and discord inside of the dwarrow’s youthful body.

 _‘This is beyond my skills. The…the lad doesn’t even have till the morrow unless a miracle happens.’_ The truth to that thought caused despair to fill the wizened dwarrow. How was he going to save him? He was so sure that he could not. _‘Is there any human who could heal?’_ looking around the room he again shook his head. ‘ _Probably not best not to ask.’_

The door to the human’s home crashed open and in came the ugliest orc Oin had seen in some time. It was one of the orcs that had followed them clear from the Misty Mountains into Mirkwood; Oin was sure of that. Then another crash filled the room and more orcs came pouring in from the roof.

 _‘I have to protect.’_ Oin thought moving his ancient body.

Protecting Kíli became his overwhelming purpose; he was his patient. Standing over him with his battle staff he stared at the approaching orc. Raising his staff, he prepared to swing.

Gurgling sounds came from the orc as an arrow burst form from his chest. Blood splattering over Oin’s face. Coating him in the black, bitter bile known as orc’s blood. This was not the end of it though.

“Whatcha think you’re doing?!” Oin exclaimed. Eyeing the elf lass that had appeared out of nowhere and hauled Kíli up onto the table.

Moving towards the lass he held his staff steady his intent clear in his eyes. He would stop her by any means necessary if she was going to hurt the Prince. His hair bristling with anger and worry, _‘She can kill him. Or worse, bewitch him!’_

Stopping midstride he lowered his weapon. His heart thumping in his chest. His glare softened as he saw a spark between the elf lass and Kíli. ‘ _Could it be?’_ He mused as he stepped closer. Dropping his weapon as he held Kíli down so the lass could look over his wound. ‘ _Could it be that this elf has feelings for the lad?’_

 _‘There is certainly a gentleness there.’_ Oin’s gaze never wavered as he watched the elf lass. _‘She gazes at him like Gloín stares at his beloved Íma.”_ Shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and disbelief he let out a little chuckle.

Her eyes were soft. Tears filling them, threatening to overflow at any moment. Her gaze never leaving Kíli’s face. And when she had entered the room Oin noticed she had looked around frantically for the young dwarrow. Her demeanor changing drastically when she saw him.

Fíli bristled beside him and looked at the elf lass with his mouth agape and a hard lilt to his eyes. Oin could not help but bite back the gentle rumbling laughter. He tried hard to keep from bursting from his mouth; albeit rather unsuccessfully. It was quite amusing to watch the elder prince’s reactions. Reaching over he gently pushed Fíli’s mouth closed.

“She is helping the lad.” Oin stated. Ignoring the huff and the wild signing that was coming from Fíli. Apparently Kíli had said something that was causing his brother to freak out. But it was Oin’s stance that it was frankly none of his business.

During their time in Mirkwood he had heard stories from Bilbo. Stories about the gentle gazes and conversations that Kíli and the Captain of the Guard had shared. Apparently Bilbo was quite the romantic and Oin had discounted the stories that the Hobbit told as being nonsense. Seeing the elf lass before him made him rethink this though. There was clearly something there.

Now that the elf lass was standing before him.  He could see _it._ What that it was, was something that very few dwarrow had ever found in their lifetime. The elf-lass loved Kíli. As against-nature as that was. She gazed at him with such ardent affection and terror it amused Oin. She was running towards her heart with one breath but with the fear in her eyes…she was holding herself back.

‘ _I might be deaf but I am not stupid._ ’

Oin’s speculations about a connection were confirmed mere moments later. He could not clearly hear what was going on. He could see that Bofur had returned from somewhere with some kind of weed with which the lass was preparing a medicine. Then she muttering something in a foreign language and spreading it onto the wound. The look of fear in her eyes was not lost on the old dwarrow though. A small smile on his lips.

Thorin would not be pleased by this at all. But it was also not Thorin’s life to lead.

***

Tauriel gazed down at the dwarf, her Kíli. Her heart filled with dread as she looked at him. His body spread out on the table. The sheen of sweet and the deadly pallor giving truth to the orc’s words. Never had she been so thankful though to arrive where she was not wanted.

Snatching the _athelas_ from the dwarf Kíli had once identified as Bofur she flashed him a nervous smile. She prayed to whatever Valar would hear her that she had arrived in time to save him. Save him from death or an even worse fate.

Watching his face, she could not help but feel relief.  He had begun to ramble; good for it meant that he was beginning to fight back against the poison.  Luckily it was an arrow wound instead of a wound made from a blade. Although the exact reasons were lost on the Silvan elf she just knew that Morgul blades were deadly and fast-acting.

As he began to move she felt her heart begin to race. He needed to lie still!

“Tauriel.” Came his breathy whisper. A look of utter amazement and wonder crossing his features.

“Lie still.” She practically begged. Her eyes revealing her heart to him even if the rest of her face was stoic.

“You cannot be here…” he was fading! Worry and shock filling her to the brim.

“She is far away. She…she is far, far away from me.”

A small smile formed on her lips. At least he was being logical in his delirium. He probably thought she was still in the Mirkwood. He did not know she had left all she knew. That she had betrayed her King to assure herself that he was safe.

“She walks in starlight in another world.” He continued. Her hazel eyes widening and her eyes voicing the questions that would never form on her lips.

“It was just a dream.” Kíli lamented as his eyes began to close. “Do you think she could have loved me?”

He gently reached out. His fingers grazing hers. Softness filling her she felt a surge of longing inside her heart. Here is where she knew she belonged. Her soul desired his and in this moment she could not help but want to reassure him.

Her fingers intertwined with his.

***

As the morning came Fíli let out a yawn and rolled over. Draping his arm around Bofur lazily. Dwarrow, in times such as this, often slumbered together. Trying to find a sense of security and family in this time of fear. Fíli was devastatingly worried about his brother but he could not stay up any longer than he had and he had curled up between Oin and Bofur to sleep last night.

Slowly getting up he straightened his outfit and gazed up at the sky. The hole in the roof made the blond dwarrow feel guilt. Bard had helped him and his kinsman. Now Bard’s home was in disarray thanks to orcs that had been stalking the Company for so long.

Looking over at the elf who was sitting beside his brother he let out a sigh. Although it could be considered wrong he could not help but feel that the old feelings were wrong. He loved his brother and this elf had saved his brother not once, not twice, but three times. On top of that she made Kíli smile during their time in Mirkwood and his brother’s happiness was all that mattered in this moment. After all, Kíli was not out of the woods yet.

Noticing the eldest of Bard’s children was up he smiled at her. “Good morning Sigrid.”

“Good morning Master Dwarf.” Came her lackadaisical reply. The sly glint in her eye unnerving the dwarrows that had entered into her establishment. In that instant he decided it would be a good time to go get some things done this morning! He did not want to be alone with the human girl for too long so that she would not form the wrong opinion.

He had been through that once in Erud Luin when the daughter of the human Baker decided he was worthy of her affection. Never had there been such a trying time in his life and he did not plan on going back to that! It was not worth it in the very least.

“Does this town have a blacksmith?” he asked. Deciding that nails and sharpening his weapons would keep him out of any potential trouble.

“Yes.” Sigrid replied. Her eyes narrowing for the briefest of seconds. Had he heard about the blacksmith? Was he going to go and look at that curiosity? “Why do you ask?”

“I need to borrow a whetstone and we will need nails to fix the roof.” He stated a quick motion to the hole in the roof to solidify his case.

“If that is the case…” she muttered. Running a hand through her dark hair before she sighed. “Follow that street.” She pointed towards the north. “Rhovan lives at the very edge of town.”

Turning to leave he couldn’t help but stop in his tracks for a second. Standing there, ready to leave as well, was Bofur.

“I figured you would need some company.” Bofur said with a sly smile. His eyes filled with warmth though.

“Thanks Bofur.” Nodding   slightly, he signed quickly in their language that he did not want to be around Sigrid for long because she was of that age.

 _‘The baker’s daughter?’_ Bofur signed back.

 _‘Yes.’_ Came Fíli’s only reply before he started on the path pointed out to him.       

***

The sound of a hammer striking an anvil and the musical lilt of song directed Fíli and Bofur towards the workshop on the outskirts of Laketown. This was one of the few places they would allow such a workplace in the wooden town. This is where the master blacksmith lived and worked.

And this is how Bofur and Fíli found their way to the doorstep of the smithy. It was as Bard had described to them. The rhythmic clang of the hammer enunciated by the coarse sound of foreign tongue of the smith.

“Excuse us.” Came the call from the younger of the two dwarrow. His blue eyes sparkling at the sight of the well-kept forge and anvil. Then his eyes traveled up and widened. Standing hammer in hand was a tall woman, even for human standards. Her brown eyes gleamed with love for her craft and a sheen of sweat covered her bared shoulders and soaked the piece of dirty cloth that wound around her head to keep her sweat out of her eyes. Her hammer was hovering in mid-air. Her muscles bulging slightly.

The intrusion did not startle her however and she resumed swinging the hammer till the piece was done. A weapon for the guard of Laketown; a commission from the Master even though he did not trust the workmanship of a woman she was the only blacksmith for miles.

Tossing the spearhead into a pan of water it sizzled. Turning from a bright orange to a grey color. Finally, she turned to face the dwarrow. A brief look of speculation crossing her features but she shrugged and gave them a small hint of a smile.

“How can I help you?” she asked, her Common carried small lilt of a foreign tongue.

“We were wondering if we could borrow your whetstone.” Fíli asked. His voice firm and commanding even if it was a request.

The look of worry that crossed her features was not lost on the two dwarrow. A brief feeling of anger rising in Fíli as he awaited a resounding no. She was going to be like the other humans in town. Refusing to help them due to their affiliation with the Master. Even if some offered help they demanded gold up front. The only help they could get was from Bard and his family especially since they had been abandoned by Thorin and the others.

“Just be careful with it.” Came her sturdy reply. “It is old and I cannot acquire a new one.” Then she turned and took off her old, patched leathers and hung them up. Next she took off her leather gloves and her scarred arms were revealed. Not because she was a brawler but it was apparent to the dwarrow that she had learned her craft through trial and error.  They appeared to be mostly slag burn scars if nothing else.

Reaching to the rafters she pulled down the whetstone and handed it to Fíli. Then she made her way over to a shoddy looking stool and sat down. Pulling out a small pipe from her pocket, she proceeded to stuff it with pipeweed and light it.  Leaning back her eyes closed subtle huff coming from her. Waiting for them to be done so she could work in peace. No judgement rolled off of her though. Her silence simply signifying she was taking a break.

Fíli started to sharpen his blade. His eyes narrowing slightly as he thought about what he had seen earlier. Kíli was in love with the elf. An elf of all the possibilities! It did not dampen the love he carried for his brother. He was just worried about his brother’s heart. What if the she elf hurt him?

_She walks in the starlight of another world._

_Do you think she could have loved me?_

The look on the elf’s face made it clear to Fíli that this was not a question that needed to be asked. Considering how oblivious Kíli was to the reactions of women it made sense that he needed to ask the question. It unnerved Fíli but it also gave him hope that maybe Kíli would be able to fulfill his promise to their mother. He would return to her, safely. After all, Kíli was the baby of the family. Dís consistently worried about her youngest child. He was, even Fíli had to admit, quite reckless.

Taking out his numerous knives, Fíli sat down in the middle of the smith’s floor his eyes and body language making his thoughts very clear; he wanted to be left alone. Right now all he wanted to do was sharpen his weapons and take his merry, old time. Then he would get the nails for Bard’s roof.

_‘Hopefully Kíli will be able to travel soon.’_

Bofur looked around nervously. He did not know who to talk to. Fíli was lost deep into thought and he didn’t know how to start a conversation with the human smith. _‘She looks like she would be the lesser of the two evils in the room.’_ Bofur mused ‘ _At least it does not look like she would flay me alive in the moment.’_ Looking at Fíli out of the corner of his eyes he let out an amused little sigh. His brother’s admission of love to the elf had apparently made him out of sorts.

“So how long have you lived here?” Bofur queried, breaking the silence. Moving to stand closer to the smith.

“Five years.” She replied. Her deep voice sending shivers down Bofur’s spine.

Opening her eyes, she looked over at the dwarrow. Scrutinizing him before she took a draw from her pipe. The embers blazing to life before she let out a puff of smoke. “Why - you and yours have come to the mountain?” she asked.

“We come to take what is rightfully ours.” Bofur answered. The answer drilled into him from the months he had been traveling with Thorin.

“But does it not now belong to the slumbering lizard? The _ckachic?_ ” she asked. Confusion briefly crossing her features.

“He is a thief.” Bofur answered. Shrugging his shoulders.  Then his warm, brown eyes looked to her pipe longingly. His was still in the Mirkwood somewhere he had lost it between escaping the spiders with the help of the elves and escaping from the elves with the help of Bilbo.

Noticing where his eyes went she couldn’t help but relax. He had such a sweet and gentle nature that he put her at ease. Unlike the one over in the corner who was sharpening his weapons. Looking at the blond dwarf she cringed. _‘He is quite the terrifying little cuss.’_

Plucking her pipe from her lips she passed it to him. “Have some.” She offered.

“Thank you.” Came Bofur’s cheeky reply. Sitting down next to her on the floor Bofur took a steady draw and then grinned. Her pipeweed was smooth and robust. Clearly not the same kind that was smoked by the Hobbit and Gandalf. _‘This is a nice change.’_ He admitted to himself as he took another drag.

“Master Rhovan! MASTER RHOVAN!” with a gust of cold air in rushed a short youth with bright green eyes and long blond hair. His hair was braided in two long strands down his back and he wore a small leather blacksmith’s apron.

“What is it Bear?” she asked indifferently.

“Did you know there were orcs in town last night?! Tilda just told me! They came into her house through the roof and her door! She wanted to know if she could get some nails from you? They have no money at the moment but she promises to find a way to pay us back.” Came his rushed reply. His eyes sparkling at the mention of the youngest of Bard’s children.

Looking over at Bofur she sighed softly. _‘So that explains that ruckus.’_

Standing up she walked over to a barrel and quietly scooped out a few handfuls of nails. They were well made but clearly made from scraps. It was all she had to make nails with since the Master only cared about how well _he_ was being protected.

“After the Master Dwarf is done sharpening his weapons.” She motioned to Fíli over in the corner. “I will go help repair the roof.”

“What of the Master’s commission?” Bear asked. His eyes wide as he stared up at Rhovan.

“Other than my journeyman there is no other blacksmith for miles. He can wait.” Putting the nails into a small basket before she handed it to Bear. “But go deliver this to Tilda. I know that Bard was placed into the… _rhusn…_ the prison and there will be no need to pay us back at the moment.”

“Yes Master Rhovan.” Came Bear’s reply. Turning he hurried out of the shop towards Bard’s home.

Nodding she moved back to her seat and took another drag of her pipe. Looking down at the dwarf who had not moved she smiled sullenly at him. “I am guessing you are staying with Bard as well?”

“Yes.” Bofur replied. Smiling up at her. “Right now Fíli,” he motioned to the blond dwarf in the corner. “Is avoiding Sigrid.”

A sudden laugh erupted from the woman’s lips. “Sigrid is a sweet girl. If not a little overenthusiastic at times with the ideas of romance like in the ballads of the troubadours. Let me guess, she is showing interest in Fíli?” she asked.

Her laughter was contagious, bringing a smile to both Bofur and Fíli’s lips. This might not be such a bad place to hide away from Sigrid after all.

 

***

1\. Dwarrow have the spoken language of Khudzul and a sign language. This is because they do not trust others with their specially crafted tongue. They speak fluent Westron (Common Tongue) as well. Except for Bifur due to axe purposes.  
2\. Fleshrot is the Middle-Earth equivalent of gangrene.  
3\. I am making up the language of Old Folyavulthig on the fly. It’s a rather robust language in my head. (I can’t find any evidence Tolkien worked on it…so…)  
Ckachic [kik-AH-ch-ick] – dragon [literally great flying serpent] plural would be ckachz [kik-AH-kiz]  
Rhusn [reh-OO-z] – Prison [shameful box]  
4\. Athelas/Kingsfoil – A healing plant. Typically used by the elves or those with elvish blood. Has great healing properties for Morgul wounds. [Mainly Morgul-blades.]  
5\. Bjarke [bee-ARK-eh]

A huge thank you goes to my beta-reader and dear friend Amy. May you be blessed and all your kin stay in good graces.


	2. Of Freedom and Overprotection

Fíli continued to hone the edges of his blades till the sun was high in the sky. Satisfied that they were sharp enough to split a warg’s hair he stopped and looked at the blacksmith; studying her for the briefest of seconds.

She seemed quite content smoking her pipe. The smoke from it wafting up to the rafters and floating there for a few precarious moments before it dissipated into nothing. That did not diminish her oddly comforting behavior. She spoke to them as if they were equals and not lesser for being of a different race than them. It was a pleasant surprised and he would have mentioned it but for the moment she seemed enraptured by her conversation with Bofur.

“And so I stood up on the table, as nothing could be really done by the fact the Elves were playing such a horrid, sad song…more like a funeral dirge really…so I began to sing.” Bofur’s smile was bright and infectious. Causing Fili to chuckle slightly. This was one of Bofur’s favorite tales from their adventure. Fili could remember well the look on the Elves of Rivendell’s faces when Bofur jumped up on the table and began to sing and dance. The song he sung was quite imaginative too, a classic drinking song among the dwarrow.

“Then what did the elves do?” she asked. Her eyes gleaming with amusement.

“There was nothing they really could do. However, we did get a stern lecture from Gandalf. Something about elvish customs dictate certain things.” Shrugging Bofur shook his head. “It doesn’t really matter to us.”

“You forgot a key part to that story Bofur.” Fíli suddenly replied. His eyes glittering with amusement. “About Kíli.”

“Oh! When the lad was complimenting the one elf?” Bofur asked mischievously.

But before the story could be expanded on, another gust of cold air swirled into the workshop. Stepping into the warmth was a tall human. His blond hair and warm, green eyes noting his Northern heritage. He was dressed in warm clothes which consisted of a worn, brown leather jacket and a white shirt, a sturdy pair of pants with a few patches here and there and a good pair of boots.  His hair was kept neatly away from his face in a simple braid that stopped half-way down his back. On his wrist was a swirled fluer-de-lis design. The symbol of slaves to the Easterlings.

Fíli’s eyes narrowed. Was this young man a slave to the smith? From her appearance and dark skin and other attributes she was clearly of Eastern descent. He had heard tales of the Easterlings from his Uncle Thorin; their fierce fighting ability, their loyalty to their clans, their dabbling in slavery, and even their notorious relations with orcs.

“Master Rhovan.” The man-child greeted, bowing. Then he slid off his jacket and grabbed a leather smithing apron. A smile on his face as he tied it around his body. “How is Bjarke today?”

“He is over at Master Bard’s. Apparently they have a hole in the roof that needs repair.” She answered, her pipe never leaving her lips. It bobbed and weaved with each word that she said in a hypnotic rhythm.

“So he’s annoying Tilda.” The male succinctly stated.

“More than likely.” Then she motioned to the two dwarrow in the room, “This is Bofur and Fíli Arvid they are here to retake there home.”

“I remember them from the celebration the other night.” The man stated, a soft smile on his face. “I am Arvid, journeyman apprentice.” Then he turned to look at the orders on the clipboard that was hanging by the door. “If you want me to Master Rhovan, I will gladly complete the tasks I can if you wish to go help with the repairs?”

“Thank you Arvid. I will take you up on that generous offer.” In her mind Rhovan found that forging nails was tedious and required no creativity. She hated them but they were needed and were a natural part of being a smith.

Taking the pipe out of her mouth, Rhovan stood up and slipped her apron off, laying it on the stool she had been sitting on. Smiling to her guests, she bowed slightly her long hair tipping over her shoulder slightly.

“I am going to go grab some things from my home.” She concluded as she returned to her full height. Her eyes glittering slightly with amusement on the exasperated look on Arvid’s face.

“You know you don’t have to bow every time you leave a room Master Rhovan.” Arvid muttered.

“Old habits die hard my child.” She answered with a gleeful grin before turning on her heel she straightened herself and moved towards a small grey door near the rear of the shop.

“You can stay here if you want. It won’t take me but a few minutes.” She informed the dwarrow before disappearing into the next room.

Bofur looked over at Fíli and smiled. “She seems nice.” He stated a devilish grin on his features. A subtle sign to Fili caused the young heir to chuckle and shake his head.

“Master Rhovan is a good person.” Came Arvid’s reply in the distance as he heated some iron in the forge. It took a bit but soon it was glowing a jolly white-hot and he took it off the fire. Then he started to beat and shape the metal. A horseshoe slowly taking shape. After it was finished he stuck it into a barrel of cool water and looked up at the dwarrow.

“When I was young I was a slave it was a dark time in my life.”  Looking up from his work.  “She took me on as an apprentice there was a raid on a slavers camp. Granting me my freedom. Instead of leaving me helpless on the prairie Rhovan was the raider that took me under her wing. Teaching me a trade and giving me the opportunity to shape who I was.” He sighed softly and shook his head. “I will always be grateful to her.”

“You were a slave?” Fíli asked. Although he had already pieced together that little tidbit. He was shocked that he was a free man now.

“Yes.” Arvid answered shrugging his shoulders. It was a horrible time in his life. He remembered the times he had to go without food, without water and shelter because his masters were preoccupied with something else. Then, one day a woman with gleaming brown eyes came with a group of raiders and took him away. She gave him his freedom. She alone would he credit for saving his life.

With a bang Rhovan entered into the shop again. In her arms was a large, wicker basket that was overflowing with food from their own meager stores. Meager as the situation was in Laketown, she did good business and was able to acquire a bit more food than everyone else. But, unlike the Master and other higher-up people, Rhovan shared her prosperity as much as she could without putting the noose around her own neck.

“We will be back. I plan on cooking dinner over there Arvid, so come when you are able.” She stated, waving her hand flippantly. Then she smiled at the dwarrow and started towards the entrance. “Just give Arvid the whetstone when you are done.”

Standing up Fíli walked over to Arvid and handed him the whetstone. “Since I am done and you already have the nails covered, would you mind if Bofur and I escorted you Master Rhovan?”

“I don’t mind at all.” Came her simple reply. Tucking the basket close to her body she grabbed her drab grey cloak and wrapped it around her body. ‘ _I miss the warmth of home.’_  She mused as she opened the door. The gust of cold air causing her to shudder. “Let’s go. That roof won’t mend itself.”

***

 Bjarke ran through the narrow wooden walkways of Laketown with the barrel of nails. They clinked and clanked against each other but he was careful, letting none of them spill over to be wasted. He wanted to get to Bard’s home quickly and so he kept up his pace; he wanted to see Tilda.

Sliding to a stop in front of Bard’s home, he started to knock on the door. His clenched fist hovered over the door, but he was unable to bring himself to knock. How could he knock on this door? He had run into Bran when he went to go deliver some finished swords to the armory. That is when he found out about Master Bard and how the orcs invaded his home.

_‘I can’t…I am not worthy.’_

A creaking sound pulled Bjarke from his thoughts. Standing in front of him was a dwarf! Bjarke had never truly seen one up close before and he didn’t even know they were real till Master Thorin and the Company came into Laketown.

“What do you need, laddie?” came the dwarf’s question. He was a stout-looking dwarf with white hair and a weird trumpet like-thing pressed into his ear.

“I brought nails. M-my master said she will come over later to help with rebuilding the roof.” He informed, his eyes darting hither and tither looking for Tilda. Just hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl.

“Bjarke!” came a soft oh-so-welcome voice. Appearing in the doorway was Tilda. “Master Rhovan is coming over too?”

“That is what she said.” He concurred shuffling nervously from foot to foot.

“Wonderful!” Tilda exclaimed. She smiled at him and he instantly felt his face begin to burn. A soft blush covering his cheeks. This did not go unnoticed by the elderly dwarrow who just chuckled. This innocent love between the two children, though it was undeveloped and would most likely die out, was refreshing to see.

“Would you like to come in?” Tilda asked. Her eyes gleaming with mirth.

“I-I would.” Came Bjarke’s reply. His voice cracking, a tell-tale sign of his approaching maturity.

Laughing Tilda opened up the door wider. Her smile radiant, shimmering in the pale yellow sun. Her gleaming brown hair filled his brain with thoughts of warm, fresh garden dirt. A beautiful thing, in his opinion.

Entering the home, Bjarke smiled. This place was considerably cleaner than Master Rhovan's home. Then again Master Rhovan really never focused hard on the housework, though she did allocate chores between herself and Arvid. She never held it in high esteem. For a better term, her house was well-lived in. ‘ _I hope she takes her time._ ’ Bjarke finally admitted when his thoughts turned to Master Rhovan.

“Do you have lumber for the repair?” he asked

“Bran should be home soon enough with some.” Sigrid replied, a haughtiness to her voice and looking down her nose at the smith’s apprentice as if he had no right to be around her little sister.

“Alright.” Bjarke replied exuberantly. His smile full and warm.  “How can I help till then?”

“You can…” Sigrid was interrupted.

"You can tell us the story of Silvire and his love!” Tilda exclaimed merrily. [

Bjarke smiled at this. He knew this story by heart as Master Rhovan had told it to him many times. He had told it to Tilda and Bran as well one day in the Market when The Fisherman’s Feast was being celebrated.

Setting his barrel down he ran his hand over his blond hair and looked for a stool. Finding one he sat himself down, an exuberant smile flooding over his features as Tilda sat down next to him. Clearing his throat, he began the tale.

“Silvire, as he was called by his countrymen, was a tall handsome man, his eyes like molten silver and his hair a dark, dark black. He was quick to laugh and loved Arda and all of its wanders.

One day he was traveling through the area of Gahush and his gaze fell onto an elvish maid. She had fair hair, light green eyes, milky white skin. He felt a pull towards her; the gift of Irmo if he would choose to pursue it. It was not a romantic feeling of course; for he did not know the maiden and love could only bloom through friendship. He wanted to know her better so he moved towards her, speaking to her in a gentle voice. Gentle he was so that he did not spook the beautiful maiden.

Approaching her he held out a flower to her...”

“This is stupid.” Exclaimed Sigrid, throwing her hands up in the air, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Bjarke who was blinking at her, shocked that she had interrupted him. She had noticed the way he was gazing at her little sister. She had to protect Tilda from this male! He was a no-name, an orphan, and he could not offer Tilda anything. Besides, they were both way too young for this nonsense.

Bjarke straightened and looked up at Sigrid. “All stories are beneficial. All life is a story. A song, if you will, to the one who created us.”

A knock at the door broke everyone’s concentration. Sigrid refused to acknowledge Bjarke’s answer. Instead she moved towards the door, opening it in a smooth motion.

***

The sight of color returning to Kíli’s cheeks brought a surge of hope to rise in Tauriel’s chest. A slightest of fluttering feelings in her stomach at the prospect that she _had_ arrived in time. A scarcely perceptible smile gracing her features but her gaze was loving none-the-less.

He would survive. He had to survive! The light inside of him, although _Naugrim_ in nature, drew her in like a moth to the flame. _‘I do not understand these feelings. But I do not wish them away.’_ She ruefully thought as she watched Kili sleep, his breathing, deep and even, a sign that he was healing at last.

Pulled from her trance she looked over to see a mortal boy, a new one, entertaining Tilda. His eyes sparkling with joy as he started to tell her a story but was rudely interrupted by the overprotective Sigrid. Tauriel couldn’t help but smile, as the mortal boy was a delight to watch. He just smiled and spoke gently. It was evident with his voice he was in between an adult and a child of his kind. It was awkward for Tauriel. To be around so many mortals made her vastly aware of the differences between their kinds. She had quit aging after she reached adulthood in her one hundredth cycle. She had refrained from marriage though

 _‘He seems sweet.’_ Tauriel mused before she gazed back down at Kíli. Her heart swelling again with emotion both unknown and anxious in nature.

_‘I wish you would wake up soon. I just…I need to know that you are okay in every way.’_

***

1\. As a Master Blacksmith Rhovan has the ability to take on apprentices. She has a journeyman apprentice named Arvid and of course her young apprentice Bjarke.  
2\. Naugrim – Sindarin for stunted people. Used to describe the dwarrow.  
3\. Gahush – Dorwinion. A land west of the Sea of Rhûn. Known for its wine and trade with Erebor, Gondor, and Mirkwood.

Many thanks to my beta-reader Amy. (If you find any errors in our editing please let me know in the comments! I don't mind.)  



End file.
